The Kid Soldier
by Laatija
Summary: Because, really? He wasn't a 90 year old war veteran. He was just a twenty-five year old kid pretending to be a hero.


Disclaimer: don't own it.

A/N: I borrowed a few things from the comics but this is mostly Movie-Verse. It's also a one-shot quicky. Please excuse all mistakes. And please, feed the plot bunnies (they eat reviews). They work better when fat and healthy.

* * *

**The Kid Solider**

* * *

Steve sat on his bed with a pad of paper on his lap and a pencil in hand. It was only about five years ago (_seventy five, Steve, seventy five years_) that he stopped trying to make a living as a comic book artist. That was the life that should have been but was decisively misplaced. He had been that little Fine Arts major from Manhattan who liked to scribble out monsters and heroes. It has probably been compensation for his own short-comings. He couldn't be big and strong back then so he would write stories and draw pictures about others who could be big and strong. And then life stepped off the path that he'd clearly been fumbling down and thrust him into a piece of science fiction. Not that he'd minded. When it was happening, Steve couldn't have been more thrilled at the unexpected change in direction.

But these things never turned out the way you wanted them to. All that glitters…

The pencil nearly had a mind of its own and Steve let it glide where it wanted to go, relishing that gritty feeling of graphite on paper. A figure appeared. It had his face. His shape. A small twisted little shape. Deep wrinkles lined the face. The figure stooped. It was gnarled and twisted and…old. Ninety years old. Dying. Sickly. But content. Other figures appeared beside the old one. A woman, as old as he was, smiling. One gnarled hand holding the other. And then younger people. Offspring. A family. Grandbabies.

They, the Avengers, joked him about it constantly – his age. For a while, Thor was the only one who didn't make a crack about his 'old age' but that streak ended when Steve explained his story to the Asgardian. Tony was particularly annoying. But, if Steve were honest with himself, it wasn't all bad. While they called him 'gramps' they also tended to look to him as the elder of the team. He was the wise military leader with decades of combat experience behind him. He was respected by them, despite the jabs and jokes. He was the famous Captain America. Follow in his well worn footsteps.

Thing was, though, Steve _didn't_ have decades of combat experience behind him. He'd had a year or two on the battle field before his plane went down. He wasn't even in his thirties yet. Frozen for seventy years, sure, but his brain and body didn't know that. Inside, Cap was just a twenty six year old kid running around and pretending that he knew what he was doing. He was still putting on a costume and prancing around on stage, acting the part. It was all a lie. Not the super soldier part – that was true – but the part where he knew what he was doing? That was the lie. He could throw a punch, sure. He cared about the wellbeing of others, yes. But was he fit to lead? Hardly. Tony was clearly the elder of the team. Thor and Bruce played a close second. Natasha and Clint were easily in their thirties and had years and years of experience at this sort of thing. Steve? Steve was just the shiny new toy who was still learning how to walk and talk the part. He was still just a rookie.

So why was he so special? Because he was a super solider with unshakable morals. A young, under experienced super solider who believed in the sanctity of marriage, respecting women, and the importance of fighting for the flag. Honesty and integrity weren't just things you told to someone to get them to trust you – they were codes of behavior to live by. Freedom was an idea worth fighting for. He wore his pants up at his waist and kept his shirt tucked in and his hair either cropped short or slicked back. His idea of a good time was taking a beautiful dame to a dance hall and swinging around the dance floor to the crooning voice of Bing Crosby or the shrieking trumpet of Benny Goodman. Vere Lynn, Rosemary Clooney, Cab Calloway, Perry Como. And then you walked the girl to her door and maybe, just maybe, she let you kiss her lightly on the lips before saying goodnight. You didn't live with her until you were married. You certainly didn't sleep with her until that point. To be fair, there were sleazebags in his time as well as in today's time but now they were something of a normality. Something to be expected. Good guys, like him, were the rare thing.

Steve sighed as he gingerly leaned back against the wall of his bedroom. It was plain and simple because he couldn't find the proper motivation to learn to like modern décor. It was just easier to stare at the plain white walls. His room was silent because he hadn't learned how to work the iPod that Tony bought him and the music on the radio hurt his ears and, if he were being completely honest with himself, it sort of frightened him a little.

He pulled his knees up and rested his arms on them, closing his eyes. The pad of paper was forgotten at his feet. Most days, the homesickness didn't get to him. Most days, he could dig into his job and get over the sense of longing. But today it weighed on him. He should be getting ready to take his girl out on the town. Maybe catch a flick at the cinema. He would definitely take her dancing. They'd walk along the streets of New York, hand in hand, discussing everything and nothing.

He _missed_ his world. His life. The sights and smells and words and phrases. Even the foods! He was in an alien world – a culture more foreign to him than Chinese or Finnish or African. It was too fast, too noisy, and too damn complicated.

Steve jerked up and swung his legs over the side of his bed, sliding into his shoes. He needed to hit something. Shut out the thoughts in his head. He hurried down the hall to the training room, wrapping his knuckles in the process.

"Mope-face emerges from the cave," Tony quipped. "What's buzzin' cousin?"

The trouble with the training room was that, to get to it, one had to cross through the living room. It was mostly empty except for Tony who was sprawled out on the sofa.

Steve had to work to keep his face from grimacing. "Gonna go work out," he said as he kept on walking. This wasn't the sort of mood you shared with your housemates.

"Not done talking…" Stark insisted. Steve said nothing. "Hey, Drugstore Cowboy!"

Steve jerked to a stop and looked back at Tony. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me, Lounge Lizard." Tony was off the couch now, arms cross over his chest.

"Lounge Lizard…"

"Yeah," Tony said in that 'well duh' voice.

"Stark…do you have any idea what you're saying?" Steve asked carefully. He'd have wasted no time in flattening the first wise guy to call him those things back in his era. But Stark wasn't from his era.

"You bet I do. I'm very keen on the 1940's now. I googled it. Keen. That's a '40's word. I find the term hotsy-totsy."

Steve gave Tony a weird look. "You sound ridiculous."

"You're just all wet, Mr. Big Cheese."

There was a moment in which Steve just looked at him, trying to decide if anger was worth it or not. And then he turned on his toes and headed back down the hall.

"Gotta go take a powder?" Tony called after him.

"That's for women, Stark," Steve told him as he walked away.

"Dames!" Tony yelled. "Don't snap your cap…" he snickered. "Cap. See what I did there?" And then Tony was running after him. Before he could say anything, Steve spun around to face him.

"Stop! Ok? Just…stop. I'm really not in the mood," he snapped.

Tony blinked at him. And then he handed Steve a slip of paper. "You might want to shower after you get done working out," Tony said. "We don't want to smell your super sweat tonight."

"What?" Steve frowned. Tony walked away, leaving Steve with the paper. On it was an address and a time: 8:00pm. He looked at it for a second and then shoved the scrape into his pocket where it was promptly forgotten.

* * *

He only destroyed one punching back this time. And also the base of the rubber dummy. And he busted open his knuckles because sometimes you just had to take the wraps off and hit something with your bare hands.

Steve hadn't looked at the clock, hadn't listened to any music, nothing but punching and hitting and releasing all of the pent up anger and angst. But the anger and angst hadn't really left, it was just defused. The energy was all used up but the emotions were still there like exhausted toddlers.

When he finally checked his watch, he was drenched in sweat and it was 6:23pm. Steve moved back through the tower and barely realized that it was empty save for him. He got himself a glass of water from the kitchen and made his way back to his room. He showered away the grime and stink and was whipping down the steamy mirror when he saw the piece of paper taped to the glass. It was an address and a time. He ignored it.

And then Steve went into his bedroom. A crisp new Eisenhower jacket and shiny black shoes had been laid out on his bed. Another piece of paper – identical to the others – was on top of the jacket, pinned to a kaki colored garrison cap.

_Now_ he was curious.

Steve looked at the paper in earnest. Eight o'clock. He wasn't sure where the address was but…taxies worked the same way now as they did back in his time, right?

* * *

It was raining and cold by the time the cab pulled up to the abandoned looking warehouse near the Hudson. Steve was beginning to question his decision to come. There were lights on in the second level of the warehouse. Steve got out of the cab and tentatively walked towards the door. It was unlocked and he pushed it open.

"Hello?" Steve called.

There was no answer but he heard the faint murmur of music coming from upstairs – ghostly whispers in the big dark building. The warehouse was cold and damp and the lower level was dark. The ceiling was lower than he'd expected. It was cramped down here. Not in the 'hot-and-stuffy' sort of way but rather the chilling 'someone's-going-to-kill-you' sort of way. If he didn't know any better, he'd say this was an ambush. And it may very well be an ambush from a bored billionaire but at least the billionaire was part of his team. The worse he could expect was a paintball to the chest. And then he'd have the satisfaction of punching Tony. That alone made it worth it…which was a good indicator of Steve's mood.

There was a staircase at the far end of the warehouse. He walked towards it, unconsciously tugging the jacket lower on his waist.

The music was louder. He heard people laughing and talking.

And then Steve froze.

_Sing, Sing, Sing by Benny Goodman._

The song reached deep inside of him and settled there like the unexpected meeting of a long lost friend.

He climbed the stairs and came to a closed door. Light peered out at him from underneath the door, beckoning to him. The music was louder now. Steve pushed the door open.

What happened next was not unlike that feeling you get when you wake up in the middle of the night and come to the realization that whatever horror that had been playing out in your head was simply that – in your head. The sweet relief of reality washes through your soul.

The hall was filled with dancers. The far end of the room housed a band. The light was dim. Tables lined the wall and there was a candle at each one. Steve didn't know much about decorating or fashion or things like that but he knew 1940's New York when he saw it. The only thing missing here was the thick cloud of cigarette smoke.

The protective wall of indifference he hadn't known was there suddenly came crashing down as his heart slid into familiarity of the scene in front of him. The smooth calming balm of the normality curled around his agitated soul. It was like coming in to stand by a fireplace after a long walk in the cold.

He drank it in for a long moment of silence.

"'bout time you got here," Bruce said, sliding up beside Steve. The man was wearing a smart looking double breasted pin-striped suit and a black fedora. It was as if he'd stepped out of the past to talk to Steve.

"The cab driver had a hard time finding the place."

Bruce smirked. "Well, you know how much Tony likes to be dramatic."

"What is all this?" Steve asked with an edge of wonder in his voice.

"It's your birthday present," Bruce said simply. "Didn't think we'd just let you slide by, did you?"

A tentative smile picked up the corner of his mouth. "Guess I hoped you would."

Steve caught sight of Natasha and Clint as they went swinging past him. They were surprisingly good dancers though Clint was a bit brutish as he hauled Natasha around and she was obviously restraining her need to take control. She looked absolutely gorgeous in her vintage gown. Fury was there, lurking in the corner by the band. There were dozens of other S.H.I.E.L.D agents and some of their personal friends. For a moment, Steve didn't even recognize Thor in his 40's garb and slicked back hair. The big man was struggling to learn how to dance with a petite little blond that danced like a shorter version of Ginger Rogers.

"I see you got my note!" came Tony's gleeful voice as he made his way to Steve and Bruce. Pepper was on his arm, looking like she belonged in Steve's era more than in her own. Tony wore a zoot suit that he worked as well as he worked the Ironman suit.

"Yeah. Would have been easier to just tell me, you know."

Pepper made a face. "I'm sorry Steve. I told him to tell you like a normal person."

Tony looked unapologetic. "Oh come on! _Tell_ me it wasn't more fun this way."

"Did we get everything right?" Pepper asked. "I did a lot of research."

"And by research she means she made me watch a lot of really boring old movies," Tony added. "They didn't have color or _anything_."

Steve felt himself smiling. "It's great. You did a good job. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Happy birthday, Steve." Pepper gave him one last smile before she pulled Tony back out onto the dance floor.

There was another moment in which Steve just stood at the door and stared at the happenings before him. He was content with just watching. It was as if the scene around him would melt away if he stepped in to join it.

His foot tapped in time to the music. The band was good. Very good.

"Now, I'm not sure how good a dancer you are," Bruce started, "but I know there are at least twenty dames out there who are dying to dance with you. Please stop standing here like a crazy person."

"You know, I'm actually not that good of a dancer," Steve admitted.

"You really gonna let that stop you?"

Steve looked sideways at the doctor who shot him a wry smile before he went off to dance himself. And then he was alone again. A tall brunette was eyeing him from across the room. A shy grin ghosted across his lips. She grinned and beckoned him forward. Steve found, as he begrudgingly approached the dance floor that, for the moment, all of his longing faded away. He was surrounded by the familiar and by the warmth of friendship. It wasn't a moment that would last forever but it was here. Now. He let it happen, forgetting all the worries and all the bitterness – if only for the night. Tomorrow? He would go back to work – go back fighting for the freedom and liberty of all. And that? That was enough.


End file.
